


Of Scarves

by Crowgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Scarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Tony has an extensive wardrobe.





	Of Scarves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catchclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/gifts).



In winter, the scarves make sense. It's cold -- and often wet and windy -- and no-one wants to go outside and be cold and wet. Plus Steve notices Tony is actually a little careful of his health. This puzzles him a bit until he realises that coughing with a chunk of metal wedged in your breastbone must be pretty uncomfortable.

So, yes, in cold weather, scarves make sense and Tony seems to have lots: long and thin, short and wide, wool, silk, cashmere, even one made out of heavy felt.

But once the cold weather is over -- the worst of it, anyway -- the scarves make much less sense. That, and Steve starts to find them much more distracting. Without the bulk of a coat beneath, the scarves catch his eye; they’re not right on a male figure, especially not the ones Tony seems to prefer: light, patterned, sparkly, sometimes no more than a fragment of gauze wound around his neck that could serve no possible purpose. 

And before Steve can train himself not to look, Tony sees him looking. He doesn’t say anything at first but Steve knows he’s been caught just from the way Tony glances at him, flicks the trailing end of a silky length of dark purple over his shoulder with a toss of the head Myrna Loy would have envied. ‘Something to say, Cap?’

‘Nice color,’ Steve says neutrally, balling his hands into fists in his pockets, and Tony studies him for a long minute before breaking out in an unexpected grin. 

* * *

Steve’s not so dense that he doesn’t _know_ when he’s being teased -- or taunted -- and it seems like Tony is doing one or the other if not both at once every time they meet after that. There’s every conceivable shade of purple, fabrics Steve doesn’t even recognize, complex patterns, plain weaves, sparkly threads, one that’s entirely covered in black sequins that he can hear scratching against Tony’s goatee when he shifts the folds.

Steve wants to reach out and move it for him, unwind it entirely, perhaps, because it’s covering Tony from shoulder to chin and that’s -- that’s just unfair. Steve might be slow but he gets there in the end and he’s long since recognized why he can’t look away.

What he can’t figure out is what Tony’s getting out of it. It can’t be showing off his clothes because he already knows Steve is the worst possible audience for that. He never tries to pair regular clothes with the suit so he can’t be trying to get Steve to lecture him about combat dress. But every time -- every _damned_ time he comes down the stairs or into a conference room or out to a press briefing, he has one of those _damned_ things on and it’s taking more and more concentration on Steve’s part not to rip them off him.

* * *

And then Tony comes down one morning with a strip of rainbow wrapped around his throat. It’s bright, thin, almost gauzy, and there’s a shimmer over the whole fabric as if it’s been dipped in glitter and Steve can’t stop himself staring because Tony doesn’t do color. Apart from the Iron Man suit, Tony wears black. Black or grey. Sometimes white. Even the scarves have, apart from the purple, been mostly black or grey or white -- all shades, all combinations, but all basically black or grey or white. 

And Tony looks at him for a long minute, then says, ‘You gonna stare at me all day?’

Steve shakes his head slowly, still mesmerized by the glitter of color against Tony’s pale skin.

Tony spreads his hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’m putting a strain on your personal vision of masculinity but--’

‘That’s not it. That’s -- that’s what you thought? -- Tony -- no. That’s not it.’

‘Oh, no?’ Tony strikes a pose, sticking one hand on his hip. ‘Then what is it?’ 

‘I--’ Steve licks his lips, then gets up, leaving his book abandoned by his cereal bowl and half-empty coffee mug. He walks across to Tony and reaches out to touch the loose ends of the scarf. They’re silk against his fingertips and he wraps them over his fingers, focussing on the cloth against his skin and not the fact that he’s slowly winching Tony closer and Tony’s coming willingly until they’re toe to toe and Steve’s knuckles are against Tony’s collarbone. 

‘Something you want, Captain?’ Tony breathes, his bright dark gaze holding Steve’s. 

Steve leans forward, giving Tony plenty of time to protest or move back or tell Steve he’s got this all wrong, but he does none of those things, just waits, patiently, for Steve to brush their mouths together. Then he sighs, and flattens his hands against Steve’s chest, and smiles against his lips.


End file.
